


these four walls (supposed to save you from yourself)

by king_finn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Chess, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Strangers to Idiots to Lovers, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28739859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_finn/pseuds/king_finn
Summary: When Jaskier gets invited to play a few songs for the patients of the mental health ward his best friend Triss works at, he doesn't expect much of it. After all, he's just a music teacher with a guitar, the most he can do for these people is to entertain them for a short while.But then he finds out about Geralt, who's spent the past few months in the ward without even leaving his room, and Jaskier realizes that he might still be able to make a difference, after all.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 240





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dibsonsmth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dibsonsmth/gifts).



> Title from Four Walls (the Ballad of Perry Smith) by Bastille.
> 
> TW for the last few paragraphs of this chapter: graphic violence. Proceed at your own risk.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

“It’s not too late to turn back, Jask,” Triss says softly, big, brown eyes regarding him with concern.

He sighs, carding his hands through his hair as he looks in the rearview mirror, trying to fix the tangled mess at least a little bit. Eventually, he gives up and leans back, hands falling limply into his lap where his fingers start drumming a quick staccato on his thighs.

“I know,” he says with a nervous smile. “But it’s just a little bit of stage fright. Nothing to worry about.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to.” He opens the passenger door, getting out of the car and retrieving his guitar from the backseat, carding his sweaty hand through his hair one last time.

It had been Triss’ idea to begin with. At the time, he’d wholeheartedly said yes. Now, though… now he’s not so sure anymore. After all, he doesn’t really know what he can do for these people. They’re all here because they form a danger to either themselves or others. And Jaskier? Well, Jaskier’s just a guy with a guitar.

But Triss takes care of these patients day in day out, surely she wouldn’t have invited Jaskier to come sing for them if she didn’t think it would help.

He sighs again and takes a leap of faith.

The mental health ward occupies the top floor of the hospital, and the lift ride up is quiet and uneventful, though the nervous twang in Jaskier’s stomach only grows as he fiddles with the strap of his guitar case.

Finally, the lift doors open and he and Triss step out into a bright yellow hall, two closed sliding doors separating them from the actual ward. He watches as Triss scans her badge and types in a code, and hurries forward when the doors slide open and she ushers him inside. He watches again when she closes the doors right away.

“Safety precautions,” she clarifies when she sees him looking. “To make sure no one who’s not allowed to leave actually leaves.”

“Ah,” he says sheepishly, shifting from one foot to the other as he turns around to look at the room.

It’s a large, round space, the walls painted yellow and white, large windows letting in the bright sunlight from outside, spilling over the grey linoleum floor and the green couches and chairs that litter the room in small groups, gathered around low coffee tables. There are people sitting here and there, some sharing a table and playing a board game together, others sharing a table as well but sitting in silence – merely enjoying each other’s company, and others sitting all alone, but seemingly content in their solitude. Some are younger, some are older.

And it’s… peaceful. Quiet. Comforting.

He knows that the image people have of mental health wards is quite different from reality, but still, it catches him off-guard.

“It’s still quite early.” He startles at Triss’ voice behind him, breaking the soft lull in the room. “The group therapy sessions start in a few hours, so you’ve got their attention for now.”

He turns back to the room. “And this is everyone?”

She crosses her arms, leaning her shoulder against his. “No, but it is _almost_ everyone. There’s three people missing. Ciri, who’s been restrained because she keeps scratching open her wounds and we don’t have enough staff to keep an eye on her all day. Dara, her best friend – he won’t leave her side, so he’s in her room as well. And Geralt.”

“Right, I’ll pay them a visit as well afterwards.”

She smiles at him. “I’m sure Ciri and Dara would love it, but don’t waste your breath on Geralt, buttercup. Don’t take it personally, he’s not fond of people in general. And he’s quite stubborn in his hatred of others.”

“Really?”

“Hmm. He’s been here a few months already and he’s yet to join a single group therapy session.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do.” He nudges her, giving her an overexaggerated wink. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll be the one to melt his frosty exterior.”

“Doubt it,” she deadpans. “Now go on, get ready for your performance, maestro. We’re wasting valuable time here.”

\---

It goes surprisingly well, the whole thing. Some of the people gather around him as he sings, others content to just stay where they are and listen. He gets a few requests, even, which he is very happy to fulfil.

And before he knows it, two hours have passed, and people start to file out of the room to attend the group therapy sessions.

He doesn’t put his guitar back in its case just yet, though, as he remembers the promise he made to Triss to check up on Ciri and Dara and the ever-grumpy Geralt.

“Knock, knock,” he says, quickly rapping his knuckles against the doorframe, a big smile plastered on his face as he carefully inches into the room. “Am I interrupting?”

There’s a boy and a girl there. The girl is half-lying in bed, her back propped up with several pillows, blonde hair fanning out over the white linen. Her lower arms are wrapped in bandages, the restraints around her wrist binding her to the sides of the bed. The boy is sitting in the chair next to the bed, playing with the sleeves of his too-big shirt, face slightly sunken. Jaskier can’t help but notice how thin his wrists are, and he doesn’t doubt for a second that he could easily fit his thumb and forefinger around them.

Their eyes turn to Jaskier.

“No, it’s fine.” The girl – Ciri, presumably – is the first one to speak. “Are you a new nurse?”

He shakes his head. “I’m Jaskier, I’m…” he lifts his guitar “…I suppose ‘entertainment’ is the word that fits best here. I just played a few songs in the common room, but I didn’t want to leave you guys bereft. If you want, I can sing something for you.”

Ciri’s smile widens. “Sure! I would love that.” She turns to the boy. “Dara, is that alright with you?” The boy nods.

Jaskier pulls a folding chair from the wardrobe – something Triss told him he would find there – and sits down, gently strumming his guitar once to make sure it’s still in tune. “And what would you like to hear?”

She grins at him. “Happy Together by the Turtles!” she says gleefully, and God, she’s truly precious. Jaskier gets the sneaking suspicion he won’t ever be able to say no to her.

He starts playing.

\---

Half an hour later, he finds himself in front of another doorway, this time leading to a darkened room, the sunblind pulled down completely to shroud the space in darkness, casting thin strips of sunlight across the walls and floor. Still, Jaskier can see well enough to spot the man sitting at the far end of the room, in front of a table with a chess board.

“Knock, knock,” Jaskier calls, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe. “You must be Geralt, right?”

The man doesn’t look up but simply lifts his hand to move a chess piece, slowly turning the board around afterwards.

Jaskier clears his throat to break the awkward silence, taking a few steps into the room. “I’m Jaskier. I’m uh… entertainment. I’ve got my guitar with me and I can sing a few songs for you if you want. You just need to ask.”

Now that he’s a bit closer, he can see that Geralt has stark white hair, falling in soft, barely-there waves down to his shoulders, tied back into a half-ponytail. Jaskier resists the urge to check if it’s as soft as it looks.

But from here, he can also see that the man doesn’t even grant him a sideways glance. Quite the opposite; Geralt even seems to turn away from Jaskier the closer he gets, giving him the cold shoulder.

“Are you sure there’s no song you want to hear? If you can’t decide, I can pick out something for you, perhaps.”

There’s no movement from Geralt, he’s as still as a statue as his eyes keep drilling holes into the chess board. It’s too dark for Jaskier to see the colour of those irises, but they’re certainly light, and in the back of his mind he ponders how splendid they would probably look in the sunlight.

The silence stretches on. Geralt moves a chess piece. Turns the board.

“As uh… _charming_ as you are, my dearest Geralt, I do wanna know what type of music you like, so I can sing something for you.”

Geralt balls his hands into tight fists on the table. His shoulders grow tense.

He still doesn’t say a word, but Jaskier gets the message: _Fuck off._

He laughs nervously, fingers drumming on the wood of the guitar. “Right!” he says, forcibly bright. “I see you’re busy, so I won’t continue to disturb you. I’ll be back next week.” He takes a few steps backwards. Geralt still doesn’t acknowledge his presence. “Alright… Bye, then.”

He turns around and walks out of the room, letting out a long breath once he’s back in the bright hallway. That really didn’t go well – but then again, Triss already warned him it wouldn’t.

Doesn’t matter. If Geralt wants to be a grumpy boor, then who is Jaskier to stop him?

But, as he teaches one of his students how to strum a few chords correctly that afternoon, he can’t help but let his mind wander back to that mysterious man with white hair, sitting all alone in that darkened room, playing chess against himself.

\---

He’s back two days later. He knows the deal with Triss was that he’d be there once a week, but something draws him back to the place – whether it’s his captive audience, Ciri’s bright smile, Dara’s quiet gratitude, or Geralt’s unreadable silence, Jaskier doesn’t know. He supposes it doesn’t matter.

He takes the elevator back up, shooting Triss a quick text to ask her to open the door for him as he fiddles with the strap of his guitar case, letting his nail dig a path in the soft leather.

Triss greets him the second he steps out of the lift, arms crossed in front of her chest, eyebrow pulled up, eyes glinting with something annoyed and fond she saves especially for Jaskier.

“You know you’re not expected until next week, right?”

He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “I know, but I don’t have any plans for the morning, so I figured why not, you know?”

She purses her lips, narrowing her eyes at him before she sighs and relents, waving him inside. “Come on, mister Impatient. Let’s go, then.”

\---

“Knock, knock.” He quickly raps on the doorframe, taking a tentative step into the darkened room.

Geralt is sitting at the table again, hunched in on himself as his eyes remain fixed on the chess board. Slowly, he lifts a hand, moving a piece before he slowly turns the board around, propping a fist under his chin, the other arm laid across his lap. Jaskier knows that, were he a drawer or artist of sorts, he would draw Geralt exactly the way he is now: sitting in a dark and empty room, still as a statue in front of the chess board as the sunlight filters through the blinds, painting him in black and white, casting dark shadows and yellow highlights on his face.

But he’s not. He’s a musician, and though he likes to consider himself quite good at what he does, he knows he could never do this image justice.

For now, though, he takes in every little detail and commits it to memory, imprinting it on his mind.

He takes another few steps forward. He’s halfway across the room now. “I know I said I’d be back next week,” he says softly – his normal volume too loud for the stillness of this room. “But I’m back now. Did you think of any songs for me to sing to you?”

Geralt ignores him. He moves a chess piece. Turns the board.

Jaskier sighs, leaning against the wall, idly plucking a few random notes. “Well,” he muses, “if you can’t decide, I suppose I’ll have to decide for you.”

Geralt’s hands ball into fists, his shoulders grow tense. Once again, he’s telling Jaskier to piss off without really saying anything.

This time, though, Jaskier decides to ignore it. If it angers Geralt more, then so be it – as long as he doesn’t outright tell Jaskier to go away, he’s not going anywhere.

He strums a few chords. “How do you feel about ‘Big Yellow Taxi’?” The man on the other side of the room doesn’t answer, doesn’t even deign him worthy of a sideways glance.

So Jaskier starts to sing.

And still, throughout it all, Geralt doesn’t say a word. He moves a chess piece once or twice, turning the board right afterwards, but his head doesn’t even incline towards Jaskier. He doesn’t give him any acknowledgement, any sign that he’s _aware_ Jaskier is there at all.

Jaskier keeps on singing as if Geralt isn’t there, either.

And then the song ends. Jaskier strums the last chord on his guitar, eyes glued to Geralt’s silhouette, tracing the line of every highlight and shadow, following the movement of his muscles and tendons as Geralt lifts a hand, sliding a chess piece across the wood before turning the board again. His face is still, oh so still, the dim light and the bright rays of sunshine streaming through the blinds making it seem as if he’s been hewn from marble, as if he’s a work of art come to life, an ancient Greek statue from the hands of the old masters themselves that’s been granted a beating heart by the gods.

Jaskier could drown in the vision before him.

Light eyes quickly dart to him, the first acknowledgement of his existence since he stepped foot into the room, and suddenly his mind slams back into his body. He’s hyper-aware of every single little thing – of the frantic pounding of his heart, the rushing of blood in his ears, the breath that catches in his lungs when their gazes meet for a split second, the twitching of his muscles as his body desperately tries to tap out his nervousness on his guitar.

For only a second, the world stops spinning.

Geralt looks away again and Jaskier takes a few steps backwards, heat rising to his cheeks and ears as he swallows around the lump in his throat.

“R- right, then,” he stammers. “See you around, Geralt.”

He practically flees from the hospital room.

\---

Hours later, his fingers are still trembling with the sheer force and weight of Geralt’s eyes on him, even if it was just for a second or so.

He retrieves the old, square box from the attic of the house his parents left him – it’s still where he remembers stashing it, years ago. He opens it on his desk, shaky hands setting up the pieces before he types the question on his phone.

_How to play chess._

_\---_

He’s back on Sunday.

Triss snorts when she greets him at the doors, rolling her eyes at him. “You know,” she says, “I won’t always be around to let you in, if you’re going to keep showing up all the time.”

He smiles sheepishly. “What can I say? I just really like it here.”

She narrows her eyes at him, smiling mischievously. “You like _Geralt,_ you mean. I could see you last time, coming out of his room while blushing like a comely maiden. What happened?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. I just sang a song for him.”

“And he _let_ you?” She huffs out a laugh. “Well, who could’ve seen that one coming? Come on, let’s get you inside, lover boy.”

He sputters a bit, but follows her through the doors all the same.

\---

“Knock, knock,” he says, tapping on the doorframe a few times before he takes a few steps inside the dark room. “I’m uh… I’m back.”

He fiddles with the strap of his guitar case for a few seconds before pulling it over his head, setting the instrument against the wall.

Geralt is once again sitting on the other side of the room, still as a statue, eyes drilling holes into the chess board as he completely ignores Jaskier. But he won’t be able to much longer – Jaskier will make sure of that.

Whether his actions will anger Geralt enough for the man to start yelling at him, he doesn’t know. But as he looks at Geralt’s face, at the way the sunlight peeking through the blinds makes parts his hair shine in a white-golden halo around his head, he decides that it’s a risk he’s willing to take. If only so that Geralt will at least _look_ at him.

He crosses the room in a few steps and snatches two pawns off the board.

And that _does_ catch Geralt’s attention.

Light eyes flicker up to look at him, making his breath catch in his lungs with the intensity of that gaze, with the anger slowly budding on Geralt’s face. But Jaskier doesn’t step back or turn away. He simply puts his hands behind his back, switching the pieces around a few times before holding out his fists, a pawn in each one.

“Choose,” he says. Geralt’s eyes stay glued to his face, eyebrows slowly drawing together, hands curling into fists.

Jaskier sighs. “I’m getting tired of having to see you play chess all by yourself. It’s quite sad to watch, really. So, pick a colour and we’ll play together.”

The silence in the room is almost palpable, unmoving to the point where Jaskier can almost taste it on his tongue. His head grows light, dizziness setting in as he keeps holding his breath – his lungs won’t cooperate as long as Geralt’s still looking at him.

And slowly, ever so slowly, the man in front of him lifts a hand, eyes never leaving Jaskier’s face as he softly taps a finger on Jaskier’s left fist.

He opens it, presenting the white pawn to Geralt.

He sits down on the other side of the table, setting the pawns on the board, rearranging the black pieces into two neat, little rows. Geralt does the same, although more slowly, as though he doesn’t quite believe what’s going on. Jaskier watches the man move the pieces, watches sure and strong hands delicately hold those little, fragile things and put them on their assigned square. He imagines how Geralt’s fingers would twitch slightly as Jaskier would hold his hand palm-up, trailing his finger over his skin lightly. He imagines how those scarred fingers would curl around his, hand warm in Jaskier’s.

And then Geralt’s done. Light eyes look up at Jaskier, catching the sunlight streaming through the blinds, and suddenly he can see that they’re amber. A rich, deep amber that holds soft golden and brown flecks, the colour of sunflowers in a summer field, the colour of honey dripping down a finger before it’s licked up, the colour of ambrosia and the nectar of the gods.

It’s a colour Jaskier would gladly lose himself in.

“All yours,” he says breathlessly, feeling as though the words have been punched from his chest.

Golden eyes flicker down to the chess board and a strong, scarred hand moves up to slide a pawn across the wood. Geralt’s gaze shifts back up to him, and for a second, it feels like Jaskier might die from the intensity of it.

He swallows thickly, quickly looking at the board and moving his own pawn. He barely even remembers the things he learned about chess the past few days – hell, he barely even remembers his own name, as if Jaskier’s entire life threatens to wash away whenever those golden eyes look at him, as if every moment has been meaningless up until this point.

Geralt moves a chess piece. Jaskier follows suit.

Slowly, as the minutes tick by one at a time, Jaskier starts to relax bit by bit. His focus shifts from the man in front of him to the chess board and the soft melody that’s starting to build at the back of his mind.

After a while of having it stuck in his head, he starts humming it.

Golden eyes meet his.

“Oh, you don’t mind, do you?” he asks, concern knitting his eyebrows together. Because as much as he loves music and loves making it, he doesn’t want to risk shattering the fragile bond he has with Geralt, doesn’t want to lose this just yet.

Geralt’s gaze drifts back to the board. He moves another piece. He doesn’t say anything.

Jaskier takes that as encouragement and starts humming again.

He loses the game in thirteen more moves.

He grins up at Geralt as they both move the pieces back into place. “Well, that was a disaster. Forgive me, I’m not really that familiar with the game yet, but maybe I’ll learn if you give me a chance?”

He phrases it as a question, a gentle hope igniting in his chest. He probably won’t coax Geralt into talking just yet, but if he can just get a reaction – _anything_ other than silent glances – it will make everything worth it.

_Please give me a chance._

Geralt looks up at him, face as perfectly still and unreadable as ever as the silence stretches on between them. Eventually, he looks back down again.

He lifts a hand and moves a pawn forward, starting a new game.

Jaskier can’t help the grin that spreads across his face.

\---

“Jesus, buttercup. Back again, already?” Triss asks him on Tuesday, furrowing her brows at him. “I think I’ll put in a request with the admin to get you your own badge. I really can’t be here to let you in all the time, you know.”

“I know.” He smiles at her before slipping inside the ward, blowing her a kiss as he walks backwards towards the hallway that leads to Geralt’s room. “I owe you one!”

“You owe me _several,_ buttercup!” she shouts back at him.

\---

“Hmm, what do you think is better, Geralt? ‘Gorgeous garrotter’, or ‘lovely garrotter’?”

Golden eyes flicker up to his, before looking back at the board. Geralt moves his bishop.

“Yeah, you’re right. Just ‘garrotter’ would work best,” Jaskier mumbles as he uses his knight to take Geralt’s bishop. He continues humming the melody, muttering lyric ideas under his breath, trying to find a good rhythm to the words.

Geralt moves his queen. Jaskier blanches as he realizes he’s been lured into a trap yet again, and knocks over his king.

“You win,” he sighs. “ _Again.”_

He doesn’t miss it when the corners of Geralt’s mouth pull up in self-satisfaction as he starts to reset the board.

“Again, I suppose?” Jaskier asks. Geralt moves his pawn forward. “I assume that’s a ‘yes’,” he mutters.

\---

What was supposed to be a once-a-week thing turns into an everyday thing as soon as Jaskier gets his badge from the hospital. Most days he doesn’t even play for the other patients – though he does reserve an hour for them at least twice a week and obliges whenever they ask him for a song – but spends his time in Geralt’s room, chess board in front of him, guitar in his lap.

He doesn’t know what it is about the room, but something there calms his mind down, makes him see things clearer and from a different angle, gives him the quiet and peace and inspiration he needs to finish the songs he’s been working on for _years,_ now, _and_ gives him the spark he needs to write new songs.

He supposes that the ‘something’ might be Geralt himself, but there’s a part of him that fears that if he admits that out loud, even to himself, it will become too serious – that it will become a riptide that will sweep him off his feet and push him under water.

He looks at Geralt, at the man sitting in the sunlight, the white halo around his head making him look ethereal, the bright light highlighting the scars and birthmarks and freckles on his skin – the tiny imperfections Jaskier commits to memory every time he gets the chance to see them. The past few days, Geralt’s begun to lift the sunblind up a little bit, the room suddenly not so dark anymore. It’s probably to see the chess board better, Jaskier supposes.

“So,” he says from the doorway an hour later, his guitar put back into its case and slung onto his back. “See you tomorrow, then?” It’s the same thing he says every day, and just like yesterday and the day before that and the day before _that,_ he doesn’t expect an answer.

Geralt never answers.

He’s halfway out the door when he hears a soft “hmm” behind him.

He looks over his shoulder, golden eyes glancing away when he meets them, and he has to try his very hardest not to cry out his joy for the entire world to hear. Because Geralt just gave him an _answer._

He nods once, and heads to the lifts.

\---

“Young man.”

He startles slightly when he’s greeted at the doors by a woman in a doctor’s coat, her raven hair falling in waves over her shoulders, her violet eyes drilling into his.

He swallows thickly, fiddling with the strap of his guitar case, nail digging into the leather. “Yes?”

“I’m doctor Vengerberg,” she says, extending her hand for him to shake. He obliges before quickly letting go, wiping his sweaty palm on his jeans. “You’re the man that sings songs, are you not?”

He nods once. “That would be me, yes,” he mumbles, going over everything he’s done in the past week, trying to find what might have sparked her ire.

But her face softens, causing Jaskier to frown in confusion. “And you’re the one who keeps visiting Mr. Rivia, are you not?” He nods again. “What is it that you do in there all the time?” she asks him.

He swallows thickly. “Oh, we just play chess. And I sing to him. We don’t… don’t do anything… inappropriate, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Her lips curl upwards. “It is not, but thanks for clearing that up anyways-“ she squints at his badge “-Julian. But… is that really all you do in there? Play chess and sing songs?”

“Yes, doctor.”

Her brows knit together slightly. “Huh. Who would’ve thought?” With that, she pushes past him, out of the doors to the ward, leaving him confused in the common room.

He shrugs it away and turns around, heading to Geralt’s room.

The blinds are halfway up, but today there is no sun to illuminate the side of Geralt’s face as Jaskier goes to sit on the other side of the set chessboard. The rain patters against the window, the dim light outside projecting the rivulets onto Geralt’s skin – it’s a sight to behold, and Jaskier finds himself following every drop as its projection slides down Geralt’s cheek.

Amber eyes flicker up to his and Jaskier is shaken out of his reverie, plucking two pawns off the board, switching them a couple of times behind his back before he holds his fists out. Geralt’s gaze never leaves his as he lifts a hand, a single finger tapping Jaskier’s left fist.

He opens it. It’s the black pawn. He hands it to Geralt, before setting his own white pawn where it belongs, turning the board so that the right side is facing him. He waits until Geralt’s set his piece down before he makes the first move.

As Geralt contemplates his, Jaskier picks up his guitar case, taking out the instrument and setting it in his lap.

Geralt moves a pawn. Jaskier moves his knight. He leans back and idly starts plucking a melody, muttering lyrics under his breath. Golden eyes meet his.

“Oh, you don’t mind, do you?” It’s the same question he asks every day. Usually, Geralt will just ignore it and turn back to the game, but this time, as golden eyes flicker down to the chess board, he lets out a soft hum.

“Wh- what?” Jaskier stammers, guitar strings twanging messily as his hand goes limp.

“Hmm,” Geralt hums again as he moves a pawn.

“R- right. Of course, thank you,” Jaskier mumbles, excited blush rising up to his cheeks as he starts plucking the melody again.

\---

He startles when he’s greeted by a mop of brown curls and two arms throwing themselves around his neck the second he opens the door to the ward. He laughs in confusion, returning the hug Triss gives him quickly.

“What did I do to deserve that?” he asks her. “Not that I mind, of course, but still…”

She holds him at an arm’s length, smile bright enough to light up the whole room even more than it already is, rivalling the sunshine streaming in through the windows. “Thank you,” she says. “I don’t know what it is that you do in there every day, but please keep doing it.”

“Wh- what are you talking about?”

“Geralt, of course!” she says, as if it’s completely obvious. “I don’t know how you manage, buttercup, but…” She shakes her head, and he doesn’t miss the light sheen over her eyes as she smiles at him. “He slept six hours last night.”

He blinks. “And… that’s not normal?”

She grins, her curls bouncing around her face as she shakes her head. “No, it really is not. Most nights he doesn’t sleep _at all,_ and if he does, well… it’s only for a short while.”

She pulls him closer, rubbing their noses together playfully, just like they’ve always done since they were little kids. It makes him giggle, a wave of nostalgia washing over him.

“Thank you,” she whispers to him. “Whatever it is you do, please don’t stop.”

“Not planning on it. Speaking of, I should probably go now, he’s expecting me.”

“Alright. Oh, are you up for drinks this weekend?”

He nods. “Sure. The Kingfisher?” he asks as he starts walking backwards to the hallway that leads to Geralt’s room.

“Meet me at ten!” Triss half-shouts at him, making a few patients look up in annoyance.

Jaskier gives her a thumbs-up and turns around, practically skipping his way to Geralt’s room.

The blinds are halfway up and Jaskier takes a few moments to look at Geralt as he sits in the sunlight, hands folded in his lap, golden eyes drilling holes into the chess board. Now that Triss has mentioned it, Jaskier does think he notices that Geralt looks a little less tired – the shadows under his eyes aren’t as deep, his shoulders aren’t as slumped, his cheeks even hold a slight dusting of pink, their usual pallidness suddenly lost.

Golden eyes flicker to him, and Geralt lifts his left eyebrow slightly; he’s getting impatient with Jaskier standing in the doorway and staring at him.

Jaskier shakes himself out of his reverie and shrugs his guitar case off his shoulder as he crosses the room, quickly performing their little pick-the-pawn ritual – where Jaskier ends up with white – before he makes the first move, unpacking his guitar as Geralt stares at the board, the heel of his hand under his chin, his fingers resting against his lips.

He sets his instrument in his lap as Geralt makes his first move. Jaskier counteracts it by moving his knight, before he starts plucking at his guitar.

“Are you sure there aren’t any songs you want to hear?” he asks softly, afraid to break the peace and silence in the room by talking too loud.

Geralt moves a pawn. Shakes his head minutely.

Jaskier half-shrugs. “Right, guess I’ll have to pick something.” He sighs. “Don’t feel particularly inspired today, so I don’t think I’m gonna be composing much.”

He moves his bishop. Plucks a few notes. He looks out the window, at the trees in the parking lot and the city park that lies beyond, at the small, green buds on the branches and the crisp green-white of the grass as the night’s frost begins to thaw in the sunshine. He looks at the children playing in the field, at the man throwing a stick for his dog to fetch, at the young couple that sits on the bench, one of them getting up to pick a budding flower from the bushes, handing it to the other.

He imagines what it would be like to sit there in that park, to have the remnants of last night’s cold nip at his fingers and nose, to bask in the sunshine as it warms his back, to pick a flower from the bushes to hand to his lover. His lover, whose hair resembles the frost that coats the grass, whose eyes rival the brightness of the sun, who gives him a crooked grin as he takes the flower without a word-

“How do you feel about ‘La vie en rose’?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt quickly looks up at him before he looks back down at the board. “Hmm.”

He can’t help but smile softly at that, strumming his guitar a few times as he starts to sing. _“Hold me close and hold me fast. The magic spell you cast. This is la vie en rose.”_

Geralt moves a pawn. Jaskier moves his bishop.

_“When you kiss me, heaven sighs, and though I close my eyes, I see la vie en rose.”_

The couple outside stands up from the bench, holding hands as they walk through the park, disappearing from Jaskier’s view as they turn a corner.

_“When you press me to your heart, I’m in a world apart, a world where roses bloom.”_

Golden eyes meet his for half a second, and his breath catches in his lungs, heart beating in his throat painfully. He looks away, Geralt’s gaze too much to bear.

_“And when you speak, angels sing from above. Everyday words seem to turn into love songs.”_

He wonders what Geralt’s voice sounds like. Sure, he’s already heard him hum out a reply a few times, but it’s never loud enough for Jaskier to get a proper idea of what he might sound like. Maybe one day, he’ll hear Geralt speak. Or maybe he won’t. It doesn’t matter to him – as long as Geralt allows him to stay by his side, Jaskier’s content.

_“Give your heart and soul to me, and life will always be la vie en rose.”_

He finishes the last few chords of the song, his voice trailing into nothingness. Geralt moves a pawn.

Jaskier clears his throat, setting his guitar against the chair, leaning his forearms on the table. He moves his knight. Geralt moves his queen. Checkmate.

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Christ, how do you always manage to beat me at this? One day, Geralt, I swear that I’ll win one day.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth quirks up ever so slightly. He might as well be rolling his eyes at this point.

“Alright, fine, you’re right, I probably won’t. But that won’t stop me from trying.”

He starts moving the chess pieces back into place, Geralt following suit. Jaskier reaches for a black pawn that’s halfway across the board at the same time Geralt reaches for the white one right next to it.

Their hands brush.

Jaskier’s breath catches in his lungs, head spinning as the side of his hand grows hot, even as he jerks it back – as if Geralt’s touch has burned him, has left an everlasting mark on him whose heat Jaskier will feel for years to come, his touch a brand that’ll claim Jaskier for the rest of his life.

He clears his throat and ignores it.

“I, uh…” he says softly. “I won’t be able to be here on Sunday. I’m going out for drinks with Triss on Saturday so I will probably be too hungover to drive. And I can’t be here on Monday, either, since I’ve got a couple of older students who have class in the morning. But I’ll come back on Tuesday, if that’s alright?”

He looks up. Golden eyes drill holes into the chess board as Geralt moves a pawn. He doesn’t hum a response.

Jaskier sighs and turns back to the game.

\---

“Thank God you’re here, buttercup.”

He stops right inside the doors to the ward on Tuesday, clutching the strap of his guitar case as Triss hurries towards him, eyes wide and filled with something he’s too scared to identify.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Geralt.” She grabs him by his arm, dragging him across the common room before he can even think to protest.

“W- wait, what? What’s wrong with Geralt?”

“He’s having an episode. A bad one.”

“An episode- Triss, what are you talking about?”

She sighs, suddenly stopping, pulling him to a halt as well, her hand around his upper arm like a vice. “The past few days, his mental health has been declining. Badly. He hasn’t slept, he’s barely eaten anything, and he just… sits there. Or he paces. It’s really not going well, buttercup.”

He feels something ugly and fearful claw at the inside of his chest. “Triss, I have to ask, what exactly is he having an episode _of?_ ”

“He’s got PTSD, buttercup. Hasn’t he told you?”

He shrugs, scratching at the back of his neck. “Well, no. We don’t exactly… talk a lot. But is there anything I can do to help?”

She sighs again. “I don’t know. Maybe. He’s been doing a bit better the past two weeks, ever since you showed up, so I don’t know what you do when you’re around him, but maybe it’ll help today as well. As long as he can get some sleep, buttercup – he really needs to sleep, he can’t go on like this much longer.”

He nods once. “Right. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” she says softly, pulling him into a quick hug before letting go. “Press the alarm button if anything happens.”

He snorts incredulously. “Like what?”

She levels him with a look, her eyes flat and tired. “There’s a reason why he’s here, buttercup.”

The words settle in his stomach like stones – even though he has a hard time deciphering what _exactly_ she meant by them – but he nods again, turning around and setting off to Geralt’s room, his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

The blinds are pulled down completely and he has to stand in the doorway for a while to let his eyes get adjusted to the darkness, slowly blinking as he starts to distinguish shapes and silhouettes.

Unlike all the other times Jaskier’s been in this room, Geralt’s not sitting at the table by the window, looking at the chess board. No, this time he’s sitting at the foot of his bed, hands resting loosely in his lap, eyes wide and unseeing as they stare at the wall in front of him – glassy and flat yet full of something Jaskier can’t bring himself to recognize.

Geralt’s hands ball into tight fists, blunt fingernails undoubtedly pressing crescent-shaped bruises into his palms, before they let go, uncurling until they’re relaxed again. And then it repeats. And repeats. And repeats.

Like waves rhythmically lapping at the shores, Geralt’s hands curl and uncurl, tighten and loosen, tense and relax. Over and over again, as his eyes never leave the wall in front of him, as his face remains perfectly still – but not still in the same way as it was when Jaskier first met him. Geralt’s face is not a perfectly sculpted mask he put on himself, not carefully blank and even as to hide any emotional response he’s having at that moment.

No, the best way Jaskier can describe Geralt’s face right now is _slack._ As if he’s not even aware he has a face to control, as if he’s far, far away from his own body, reliving things that are already in the distant past. As if there is no emotional response _to_ hide.

He sets his guitar against the wall gently, kneeling by the foot of the bed, bringing his hands up to ghost over Geralt’s face – he can’t touch, he _can’t._ Geralt hasn’t said he’s allowed yet and Jaskier’s afraid he’ll never be able to let go if he does.

“Geralt?” he says softly. “Geralt, it’s me. Jaskier.” Golden eyes stare at the wall blankly, looking right over his head as if he’s not there at all. It’s exactly like the first time he met Geralt, except now it feels _worse,_ because it doesn’t feel like Geralt’s doing this on purpose. It feels like he really doesn’t realize that Jaskier’s there.

“Geralt? Can you hear me?”

His hands curl into fists. Unfurl. Curl again.

He gets up slowly, walking over to the chess board and snatching two pieces from it, switching them behind his back before he goes to stand in front of Geralt, fists outstretched.

“Choose,” he says, ignoring the way his voice wobbles slightly.

Golden eyes stare right through him, unmoving, unseeing.

“ _C_ _hoose."_

Hands curl into fists. Unfurl. Curl again.

Jaskier puts the pieces back where they belong, opting to unpack his guitar instead. If he can’t coax Geralt back into his body with chess, he’ll _annoy_ him into coming back.

He leans against the wall, a little bit to the left of Geralt, where the golden eyes don’t look right through him, but from where he still has a good view of Geralt and his blank expression. And he starts playing.

He plays everything that comes to mind, from half-finished songs to old lullabies to pop hits from the eighties. If it drifts into his head, it drifts into the room. He plays, and plays, and plays, until his fingers are aching and painful, until the callouses on his skin start wearing away, until his voice becomes raw and his throat dry.

He plays, as seconds turn to minutes turn to hours. It slowly grows darker outside, bit by bit, and he takes a five-minute break to drink some water for his parched throat and to lift the blinds. It’s raining. Big, heavy buckets of it pouring from the skies, fat droplets pitter-pattering against the glass.

Jaskier moves back to stand against the wall. He starts playing again.

And bit by agonizing bit, ever so slowly, almost imperceptibly, Geralt’s face turns from slack and empty to something entirely different, something Jaskier’s never seen before. He looks… peaceful. Calm. Content.

Golden eyes slip closed.

Jaskier keeps on playing. He remembers the park outside the window, remembers the couple and the flower one of them picked for the other, remembers the children playing and the man throwing the stick for his dog.

_“I see trees of green,”_ he sings softly, smiling to himself as he remembers the song he used to hear on his nan’s old radio, back when he was a kid. “ _Red roses, too._ ”

He looks up to cast a glance at Geralt. He’s still sitting at the foot of his bed, hands limp in his lap – but they don’t curl and uncurl anymore. They just lay there, calm and peaceful like the rest of him.

“ _I see them bloom for me and you._ ” He grins, looking down at his guitar as he strums the chords. “ _And I think to myself: what a wonderful world._ ”

There’s a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and before he can lift his eyes to look at it, his head hits the wall painfully, dizzying him, making him drop his guitar – which lands with a loud and dissonant _twang –_ and he’s sure he would’ve fallen over if something wasn’t holding up.

_Something is holding him up._

He blinks the fog out of his eyes, Geralt’s face growing into focus. Golden eyes – _angry_ golden eyes boring into his, intense in a way Jaskier’s never seen on anyone before. The word _feral_ shoots through his head at the snarl that bears Geralt’s fangs, at the quiet growl being pushed from the back of his throat.

_Throat._ Jaskier’s throat hurts.

There are two hands around it, blinding pressure pushing him against the wall – _the thing_ , the thing holding him up.

And suddenly everything snaps into focus.

He gasps for breath, trying and failing to get air into his lungs as Geralt’s hands squeeze his throat shut, furious eyes glaring at him as Jaskier’s hands come up to pull at Geralt’s wrists, feet kicking uselessly against the wall.

“G-“ He gasps, wheezes as he tastes blood at the back of his tongue, heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Geralt-“

The golden eyes don’t recognize him.

“P- please, _Geralt-“_

He gasps and pants and coughs, a useless sob wracking through his _useless_ chest, dark spots dancing across his vision, obscuring all but golden eyes as oxygen runs out. His hands abandon their attempts at pulling that merciless grip away from his throat and slap against the wall.

His fingertip hits something plastic, jutting out of the drywall _. The emergency button._

He stretches his arm as far as he can, muscles aching and joints creaking in protest as his fingertips graze uselessly against the button and he’s running out of air and it won’t be long until his lifeless body hangs limply in Geralt’s hands and all he can see is angry, golden, _unseeing_ eyes and the button _the button the button the button the button._

He stretches his fingers as far as he can. He smashes the emergency button.

Nothing happens.

He cries out his frustration, though it’s nothing more than a pathetic, little whimper by now, and he smashes the button again. And again. And again. And again.

His head grows fuzzy. His heartbeat thumps in his ears. He can’t feel his fingers anymore. All he sees is golden eyes.

Shouting.

Screaming and shouting and someone is calling for help. Geralt’s hands jostle him around like a cantankerous child with a ragdoll as people try to pull his arms away from Jaskier.

Golden eyes. Golden eyes and Jaskier goes limp, hands hanging by his side uselessly as Geralt’s merciless hands around his throat hurtle him towards death with each passing second.

A needle glints in the light shining in from the hallway.

Geralt’s hands grow looser, bit by bit, and Jaskier desperately gulps in every bit of air his abused throat allows him to. He sobs. He _can_ sob. The fact that he can makes him cry more loudly, face contorting as he grimaces, tears streaming down his burning cheeks. Parts of his world come into view again.

Golden eyes. Confused, golden eyes as eyebrows knit together slightly. Golden eyes, holding a glimpse of recognition.

Golden eyes, rolling into the back of Geralt’s head.

Geralt drops. Jaskier drops with him. Several panicked voices fill the room and there are hands on his body, turning him around, feeling his neck, his pulse and he lets them.

He closes his eyes as consciousness slips from his grasp.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god, thank you guys so much for the support on the first chapter! I'm absolutely blown away by it, it's really made my week :)
> 
> TW for mentions of past violence and violence in a nightmare.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

“Stop fidgeting with it!” Triss slaps his hand away from the bandage around his neck. He lets it fall limply as she takes the scarf from the chair, wrapping it around him.

“But it itches,” he whines, fingers twitching against the side of his leg.

“Good. That means it’s healing.” She sighs, letting her hands rest on his shoulders, ducking to meet his eye. “Listen, I know it’s annoying and I know it itches but you’re doing so well. Don’t mess it up by reopening the wound, alright?”

He nods, shifting his eyes to look past her, catching sight of himself in the mirror. There are still some bruises peeking above the edge of the scarf and he can see the dark circles under his eyes from all the sleepless nights – the ones where the nightmares won’t go away, the ones where furious golden eyes fill every inch of his mind until he feels like he’s choking all over again.

But besides that, he looks… fine. Surprisingly and suspiciously fine, even though he very much feels like he’s  _ not;  _ even though he has trouble sleeping and concentrating and the doctor’s words of  _ possible brain damage  _ keep echoing through his head; even though they had to cut a  _ hole in his throat  _ to allow him to breathe, for crying out loud.

Despite everything, he looks… fine.

He sighs, taking his coat from the bed, shrugging it over his shoulders as Triss grabs the duffel bag. “Shall we go, then?” she asks.

One last time, he looks around the hospital room he spent the last week in before he nods and heads for the door. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

\---

He has to assure Triss he’ll be fine five times before she finally goes, leaving him alone in his empty apartment with the lasagne she made for him in the fridge and a sad-looking ‘get well soon!’-balloon hanging around in the corner of the living room.

He sighs, dumping the duffel bag on the bed, zipping it open and pulling his dirty clothes out, pushing them into the washing machine and slamming the little door shut. He turns it on before wandering over to the hallway, expressly ignoring that stupid fucking balloon in the living room, shivering as he turns the thermostat up.

He turns around, leaning against the wall and pulling his sweater closer around himself, looking around his apartment.

It’s strange. In all the years that he’s lived here, the place has never felt emptier than it does now. Maybe it’s because he’s still a bit used to the hospital and the people who kept walking into his room to check up on him. Maybe it’s because it feels weird having this big a space all to himself after the small hospital room he was in. Maybe it’s because Triss spent nearly every waking moment by his side and he’s lonely now that she’s gone.

But that doesn’t really make sense, does it? This is the same apartment he spent years of his life being alone in. The same place he decorated so long ago with Ikea furniture and tacky posters and ugly patterned pillows. This is his  _ home. _

But then his eye falls on the guitar case in the corner and things make a little more sense.

He walks over to it, sitting on the couch and pulling it into his lap, clicking the locks open. Some part of him foolishly hopes that it’s fine this time around, that it has somehow magically healed over the past few days.

But when he swings the lid open, the spark of hope snuffs out.

He lifts his guitar up by the neck, pushing the case off his lap to replace it with the instrument. Slowly, he lets his hand trail over the jagged edges of the hole in the side, his fingers pressing into the sharp points, splinters burying themselves into his skin.

He still finds it hard to believe, even now. Triss told him it happened either before or during the struggle – either when Geralt grabbed him by the neck and Jaskier had reflexively dropped the instrument, or when the nurses were trying to save his life. No one knows for sure. He supposes it doesn’t matter, in the end.

He strums the strings softly with his thumb, tears pricking behind his eyes when not a single sound comes from the guitar.

It shouldn’t feel like grieving a loved one this much. But it does.

He puts the guitar back in its case carefully, smoothing his hand over the body one last time before he closes the lid, clicking the locks shut again.

He helps himself to some lasagne in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop and idly playing with the edges of the bandage around his throat as the food heats in the microwave. He eats it in front of the tv, chewing and swallowing slowly, eyes glued to the screen as his mind wanders – back to the hospital, back to the ward, back to golden eyes.

He wonders if they’ve restrained Geralt because of what happened. He wonders if he’s playing chess by himself if they haven’t. He wonders if he misses Jaskier. He wonders if he’s finally gone to one of the group therapy sessions. He wonders if Geralt can still feel Jaskier’s skin on his hands the same way Jaskier can feel Geralt’s on his neck.

He wonders a million and one things, letting them drift through his mind like clouds across a clear, blue sky, eyes staring unseeing at the screen, the food turning to dust on his tongue, grating against his throat every time he swallows it.

When he’s done, he turns the tv off, quickly washing his plate and fork in the sink before making his way over to his bedroom. He changes into his pyjamas, smiling softly when he finds fluffy socks that definitely weren’t there before sitting on his desk – he’ll have to remind himself to thank Triss for those later.

He looks at the clock. It’s only seven but he’s already so, so tired, all those sleepless nights taking their toll on him, and he crawls beneath the blankets, turning the lights off and closing his eyes.

He drifts for a while as he ignores the slight itching of the healing wound in his throat, where the doctors had to cut him open to stick a tube into his lungs – his throat had been so swollen he couldn’t breathe by himself and they couldn’t intubate him the traditional way. He remembers waking up in the emergency a few hours later, disoriented and confused, in pain and breathing without the feeling of air wheezing through his throat.

Triss had been by his side – his childhood friend always is – and had told him about the tracheotomy, about the tube and what it meant.

And then the doctor had walked in.  _ Possible brain damage,  _ he’d said.  _ We’ll have to monitor the situation,  _ he’d said.

_ Signs of brain damage may include being unable to concentrate, insomnia, and memory loss,  _ he’d said. He’d asked if Jaskier remembered what happened. Jaskier had lied and said he vaguely did. With time, the memories had come back, luckily, but that doesn’t stop him from worrying, still.

He pushes those images away for now and loses himself in the memories of strings against his fingers, of chess pieces clicking on the board, of golden eyes looking at him with slight amusement right before Jaskier would lose a game. Memories of soft hums that Jaskier had to translate by himself, of sunlight spilling through the window and casting silver hair in a halo, of the side of a scarred hand touching his.

_ Scarred hands, wrapped around his neck, golden eyes, furious and boring into his, a voice that used to softly hum growling at him. _

His eyes snap open, staring up into the darkness as his throat constricts, panic flooding his chest like a tidal wave that’s broken through a dam. He sees a shadow in the corner –  _ a shadow in the corner, oh god, there’s a shadow in the corner, oh god, oh god, oh god –  _ and he sits upright, quickly turning his bedside lamp on.

The shadow is just his wardrobe.

He sighs, letting himself fall back onto the pillows, looking up at the ceiling as tears prick in his eyes. He wipes them away furiously, hand drifting down to fiddle with the edge of the bandage. The urge to scratch at the wound always gets worse at night, for some reason.

He looks at the clock. Eight. It’s barely even night, though; he’s still got more than enough time to get some rest.

He lays on his side, eyes glued to the clock as he waits for his mind to start drifting again, to find the doorstep that leads to sleep.

He watches as the clock passes nine, ten, eleven, twelve, one, two.

He turns off the light.

_ Hands around his neck, golden eyes that don’t recognize him, Geralt’s voice growling at him. _

He turns the light back on.

_ A sign of possible brain damage is insomnia. _

He groans in frustration, wiping his hands over his face before he sits up straight again. This is useless, he’s never gonna get the sleep he needs like this.

But he’s tired enough as it is already, and how the fuck is he supposed to get sleep if not like this? His eyes drift across the room in search of an idea of some sorts before they land on the chess board on his desk.

He pushes himself out of bed, dragging his blanket along with him as he pads his way over to the chair. He sits down, pulling the board towards himself, hand slowly coming up to reset the pieces back in their correct places. He’s about to take two pawns to switch behind his back when he realizes it’s just him – he’s gonna have to play both colours, now.

He starts with white. Moves a pawn. Turns the board. And, bloody hell _ , this is really hard _ . He has to resist the urge not to favour one colour over the other, to make a move he won’t immediately be able to counteract, and he briefly wonders how Geralt can even  _ do  _ this. No wonder he was so eager to play with Jaskier, doing this on your own is an absolute nightmare.

He sighs, leaning his chin on his lower arm on the desk as he contemplates his next move, brows furrowed in concentration as he stares at the pieces that are now at eye-level. He moves a pawn, turns the board with one hand. He blinks at the white pieces, eyelids lingering where they meet for a second. He opens his eyes again, tries to figure out his next move.

He sighs, letting his head tilt to the side, resting the side of it on his arm. His eyes drift shut again. He doesn’t bother opening them again.

He dreams of scarred hands moving chess pieces, of golden eyes glinting with amusement before Jaskier admits defeat, of a soft hum when he asks if they can play another game. His guitar is whole and in his lap. His throat doesn’t hurt when he sings a love song.

\---

He wakes up aching, the uncomfortable position at the desk wreaking havoc on his back and neck. He would’ve been freezing if it weren’t for the blanket around him and the fluffy socks on his feet.

He sits up straight, groaning in discomfort as his spine cracks painfully, his neck popping when he moves his head to look at the clock. Six in the morning. Well, at least he managed to get four hours of sleep – it’s better than nothing. It’s better than being plagued by nightmares.

He gets up, dumping his blanket on the bed and shedding his pyjamas as he makes his way to the bathroom. He needs a shower. A good, long one.

He looks at himself in the mirror as the water heats up, gaze drifting to the dark circles under his eyes at first. They’ve gotten a bit deeper over the past night – of course they did. Four hours isn’t enough to keep him well rested on the best of days, so they’re definitely not enough to catch him up to all the sleep he’s lost over the past week.

His gaze drifts lower, still, to the ring of sickly green and yellow bruises adorning his neck, some spots of purple and blue still visible here and there. He raises a hand to tentatively touch at the bandage, picking at the medical tape that holds it in place with his nail. The doctor said he would be allowed to remove it after he’d gotten home and reasonably, Jaskier knows he should before he gets into the shower. Yet part of him fears what he might see.

His fingers tremble when he plucks at the tape some more, slowly peeling it off his skin, eyes glued to his reflection as he pulls the gauze away.

It’s… underwhelming, really. They cut a hole in his throat to push a tube into his lungs and a week after they’ve removed it, the wound is barely even there. Just a small dip in the skin of his throat, an angry red as a thin, horizontal stripe runs across it, a little longer than the nail of his thumb.

It’s there, of course, and it stands out against the pale expanse of his neck but… that’s it. Jaskier wonders what he was so afraid of in the first place.

He’s shaken out of his reverie when steam starts to fog over his reflection and he takes a step back, taking one last look at the mirror before he gets into the shower. He turns the heat way up, letting the water scald his skin, letting it turn as red as the scar on his throat as he stands there, head tipped back, eyes closed against the onslaught, his mind drifting far, far away.

He’s never understood meditation, has never understood how someone can just stand or sit there and do nothing and have a clear mind – his thoughts have always been so, so loud, especially when he has nothing to grab his attention. But here, in the shower, as he’s enveloped by heat and the repetitive sound of water falling onto the ceramic, as he falls into a half-sleep, mind completely empty and feeling at peace for the first time in a week, he understands a little bit better.

He only snaps out of the half-sleep to wash himself when the water’s growing cold and he can no longer control the clacking of his teeth as goosebumps raise along his skin.

He wraps himself into a bathrobe afterwards, padding into the kitchen to grab some cereal. The milk in the fridge isn’t his – it probably would’ve gone bad if it was – and he has to once again vouch to himself to thank Triss the next time he sees her.

He pours himself a bowl and wanders back into his bedroom as he eats, eyeing the chess board on his desk. There are a million things he could be doing, now that he has the rest of the month off to recover, a million things he’s put on his To-Do-list  _ years  _ ago. He could take that vacation to Hawaii he’s always wanted to take. He could learn how to play a new instrument. He could repaint his apartment, go to that coffeeshop a few blocks away, go on an actual  _ date,  _ for once.

He could buy himself a new guitar.

But after years of putting all those things off, after years of longing for time to do the things he wants to do, he finds himself only wanting what he shouldn’t be.

_ Is he really gonna do this? _

He finishes his cereal, dumping his bowl in the sink for future him to worry about before he rummages through his wardrobe, pulling out a soft sweater and some old, faded jeans. He hastily dresses and grabs his things, remembering at the last possible second to bring a scarf – something light and frilly that he bought on a whim from a vintage store a while ago. Who would’ve known it would come in handy someday?

He pauses in the doorway for a few seconds, looking back at his guitar case gathering dust in the corner.

_ Is he really gonna do this? _

It feels weird not to have it on his shoulder, like he’s missing part of himself somehow. He sighs, looping the scarf around his neck, making sure it covers his healing wound before he closes the door behind him with a decisive  _ click. _

_ He’s really gonna do this. _

\---

“Buttercup? What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

He smiles and shakes his head as Triss’ hands come to rest on his shoulders, brown eyes concerned as they look him over. “I’m fine,” he says, softly grasping her wrists. “I’m here for Geralt.”

She meets his gaze, confusion furrowing her brow. “Are… are you sure you wanna see him? Buttercup, he…” she drops her voice to a whisper “he nearly  _ killed  _ you.”

He nods. “I know.” He lets his eyes drift through the common room of the mental health ward, smiling lightly as he sees Dara and Ciri sitting at one of the tables, playing Uno together. It’s good to see the girl out of her restraints. He wonders if that means she’s healing – mentally and physically.

“Buttercup.” His eyes snap back to Triss. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. You’re in no way obligated-“

“I know,” he repeats. “But I  _ want  _ to see him. I want to talk to him.”

Something in her gaze softens and she nods. “Alright. But at least take someone with you. I won’t let you go in alone. Not again.”

He nods. “Alright, fine.”

\---

“Knock, knock,” he says softly as he raps his knuckles on the doorframe, stepping into the darkened room, the nurse – Istredd, if Jaskier remembers correctly – following closely behind, though lingering in the doorway when Jaskier presses on.

Geralt isn’t sitting at the table by the window or at the foot of the bed, even. Today, he’s sitting on the side of the bed, back turned to Jaskier, head bowed to look at his lap. Jaskier gets the sneaking suspicion he’s been sitting there like that for a while, now. A long while.

Something in him longs to reach out, to run his hands along the knobs of Geralt’s spine, to press his fingers into the tight muscle of his shoulder, to push down with the heel of his hand and work the tension out of Geralt’s back before running his fingers through those silver locks, gently unknotting the tangles.

And something in him longs to shrink back, to run out of this room and never come back, to forget the memory of Geralt’s hands squeezing his neck shut.

He ignores both and steps towards the table by the window, where the chess board is set up, ready for a new game. He plucks two pawns off of it, switching them behind his back a few times before he wanders over to Geralt’s bed, standing in front of the man.

Golden eyes refuse to meet him.

Jaskier stretches his arms out, a pawn in each fist. “Choose,” he simply says.

Geralt just keeps staring at the floor, elbows on his knees and hands hanging limply between his legs. He doesn’t look up at Jaskier’s voice, doesn’t hum or frown or shake his head or acknowledge Jaskier’s existence at all. It’s just like the very first few times Jaskier came here.

And it’s so, so very different than all those times as well.

The Geralt he met had an air of dignity around him – bordering on pretentiousness. He’d been stoic and calculating and composed, intimidating in a way Jaskier had never seen before.

But  _ this  _ Geralt- the Geralt right in front of him, is anything but. He’s a mess, hair tangled and knotted together, a stubble on his chin and cheeks, back bent and shoulders slumped, the skin of his wrists rubbed red and raw. 

This Geralt looks… defeated.

Part of Jaskier pities him. Another part tells him the last thing Geralt wants is his pity. A different part remembers the feeling of hands around his neck.

“Choose,” he says again, hands slightly trembling as he clenches his fists around the pawns, the edges digging lines into his palms.

Geralt doesn’t look up.

“ _ Choose,”  _ Jaskier bites out, voice shaky and on the verge of breaking, an edge of desperation sharpening his tongue. “Goddammit, I’m not gonna play chess on my fucking own, so  _ choose. _ ”

“Leave.” Geralt’s voice is soft and raspy and deep enough to send shivers down Jaskier’s spine, had he not been preoccupied with the fact that  _ Geralt just spoke to him. _

“Choose,” he grits through clenched teeth nonetheless.

“Leave.”

He lets go of the pawns, barely aware of the sound of them clattering against the floor as his hands fall limply by his side, blood rushing through his ears and a light sheen of red covering his vision. “ _ No.  _ I won’t  _ fucking  _ leave.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Geralt tilts his head up, golden eyes briefly meeting his before they drift down to the scarf around Jaskier’s neck, to the greenish bruises that are undoubtedly peeking out above the fabric.

“I hurt you.” Jaskier knows he doesn’t imagine the flash of pain that shoots through those golden eyes.

He scoffs, fighting the urge to lift his hand and reflexively cover his throat. “I’m fine. It was really nothing serious.”  _ Possible brain damage,  _ the doctor’s voice rings through his head.

Geralt stands up abruptly, suddenly so close that Jaskier’s fight-or-flight kicks in, the part of him that remembers scarred hands around his throat growing louder and louder as he takes a step back, then another when Geralt takes a step towards him.

“Rivia!” the nurse in the doorway shouts in warning, but Geralt doesn’t relent, stepping closer and closer as Jaskier backs further and further away. His hands are shaking, eyes wide and breath coming out in soft pants, sweat gathering on the back of his neck as he steps back until his shoulder blades meet the drywall.

_ The button the button the button the button- _

“Rivia! Final warning!” the nurse calls out from the doorway as Geralt’s hand comes up.

He’s so close to Jaskier now, crowding into his space, body heat radiating against his skin, golden eyes boring into his and Geralt’s scarred hand comes up to Jaskier’s throat and  _ the button the button the button the button- _

Geralt pulls the scarf away. It floats to the linoleum floor as golden eyes drift down to the ring of yellowish green that adorns Jaskier’s throat, to the angry, red scar in the middle, dipping into the small, barely-healed pit in his skin, where the doctors pushed a tube through to his lungs.

Flashes of regret, anger, hurt and a million other things Jaskier can’t bring himself to identify spark across Geralt’s face, his carefully crafted blank mask falling away for just a few seconds.

“It’s really nothing,” Jaskier says, voice trembling and nearly cracking. Golden eyes shoot up to meet his.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Geralt whispers. He turns abruptly, stalking out of the room, pushing past the nurse to disappear into the hallway – where to, Jaskier doesn’t know.

He stands there for a while, trying to process what happened, trying to figure out what to do next. After five long, agonizing minutes, he bends through his knees to pick his scarf up, carefully winding it around his neck again before he looks around the room one last time.

And then he leaves.

\---

_ Golden eyes that don’t recognize him drilling into his, strong hands squeezing his neck shut as he gasps for breath, fingers clawing at Geralt’s wrists. His eyelids fall shut and everything goes to black. _

_ He wakes up in a hospital room, staring up at the white ceiling as he breathes without the feeling of air wheezing through his throat, a tube in his neck connecting him to an oxygen machine. He tries to move his head when he hears a voice by his bedside, but he finds himself unable to do anything. He can’t shift his eyes, clench his hands, wiggle his toes. He can’t do anything but lay there and try not to panic as the voices approach his bedside. _

_ “I’m sorry, miss Merigold. He’s gone too long without oxygen, there’s too much damage. He’s braindead.” _

_ He hears Triss cry next to him, feels her hand on his and he tries- tries so desperately to turn it around and clench her fingers in his- but he can’t. He can’t even fucking turn his head to look at her. _

_ “Miss Merigold, I’m sorry but we’re gonna have to ask you if you know how he felt about organ donation.” _

_ He wants to scream no, wants to shout out that he’s still there- he’s not dead for god’s sake, he’s not dead. He tries, tries so hard, with all his might and he can’t. He can’t even cry out of frustration, out of fear. _

_ But it’s too late. A gloved hand with a butcher’s knife appears into view, quickly followed by a familiar face, framed by white hair. He wants to sob out his relief. Geralt’s here, Geralt will look at him and realize Jaskier’s still in here and will stop all of this from happening. _

_ Golden eyes drill into his, a spark of recognition lighting them up. _

_ “Oh, hello, Jaskier,” Geralt says in that deep voice of his. “Are you still with us?” _

_ Jaskier wants to scream yes, wants to laugh because Geralt knows- knows Jaskier’s still there, knows not to cut him open. _

_ With an effort that drains him from all the energy he has left, he nods minutely. _

_ Geralt grins. “Good,” he says, before he brings the knife down into Jaskier’s neck. _

He shoots up in bed, gasping for air as sweat cools on his skin, hands fisting the sheets painfully. He needs a minute to remember where he is before he can start the conscious process of unclenching his hands from the bedding, one of them gingerly coming up to brush against the spot in his neck where the doctors put a tube into his throat, where Geralt stabbed him in his dream.

He sighs, reaching over to turn on the bedside lamp. He needs to squint his eyes a little to get used to the sudden light but once he’s used to it, his gaze drifts over to the clock. Two in the morning.

Well, at least he got… an hour’s sleep.  _ Great. _

He sighs, pulling the damp and tangled sheets from around his legs, padding his way to the bathroom. The water is cool and refreshing against his skin, the sound of it rushing from the tap drowning out the last remnants of the nightmare.

He meets his own gaze in the mirror, meets flat, tired eyes and the shadows underneath them, meets the scar in his neck and the ring of yellowish bruises that still adorns the skin above it, meets sweaty and matted hair and furrowed eyebrows. He looks like hell.

He considers calling Triss. It’s the middle of the night but he knows she would gladly help him through it until the sun rises again, knows she would help chase the nightmares away.

But that’s the thing. If she heard about the nightmare he had – heard that Geralt was in it – she would probably tell him not to go back, to stay far, far away from the ward and try to forget all about him. And she would probably be right to tell him that, it would work and with time, the memories would fade and the nightmares would disappear. Jaskier would be able to live his life without ever seeing Geralt again and without ever thinking about him again.

But that’s the thing, too. Jaskier doesn’t  _ want  _ to never see Geralt again, doesn’t  _ want  _ to never think about him ever again. He wants…

He wants…

_ What does he want? _

He sighs, frustrated at his own inability to decipher what it is, exactly, that he  _ does  _ want. He turns the light in the bathroom off and wanders back into his bedroom, letting himself fall down in his desk chair, leaning his chin on his folded arms as he looks at the chess board.

He wants  _ that.  _

He wants to play chess with Geralt – not even with anyone else, just Geralt. He wants to sit in that hospital room with the blinds halfway up and the sunlight illuminating them both, hurting his eyes with how bright it is. He wants to look at Geralt and fiddle with his guitar and play a love song before he realizes his king got cornered. He wants to see that amused glint in those golden eyes, that twitching of the corner of those full lips, that soft hum of that deep voice when he asks if they can play another game.

He wants to remember  _ that  _ every time he thinks of Geralt, not those hands around his throat.

More than anything, though, he wants to make new memories, too. He wants to hear Geralt talk to him, wants to hear what his life’s been like so far or what kind of music he likes or even how to properly play chess – because Jaskier keeps losing and it’s  _ infuriating.  _ He wants to hear Geralt’s opinion on his music, wants to hear what season he likes best and what his favourite colour is. He wants to hear why Geralt plays chess so much, why he doesn’t join the group therapy sessions, what he wants to do after he gets out of the hospital.

More than anything, he wants to finally get to  _ know  _ Geralt.

He nods to himself. Yes. That’s what he wants. Now he just has to figure out how to get it.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he wakes up four hours later.

\---

“You speak.” It’s the first thing he says to Geralt, the next morning.

Geralt’s once again sitting on the edge of his bed, head bowed and shoulders slumped, elbows on his knees, hands limp between them. It’s the same position as the day before, and Jaskier briefly wonders if Geralt ever even moved at all throughout the night.

Geralt, though, doesn’t look up. Keeps his mouth shut.

Jaskier scoffs before walking to the chess board, picking two pawns – he briefly realizes that the ones he dropped on the ground yesterday are back in place – and switching them behind his back as he takes the two steps back to Geralt.

“Listen, I know you can talk, you did it yesterday. So don’t play coy with me, Geralt. Now,” he holds his hands out, a pawn in every fist, “choose.”

Geralt ignores him. Jaskier can’t help but notice that the stubble on his cheeks has grown, and so have the shadows under his eyes.  _ Did Geralt even sleep? _

He sighs. “Alright, listen up, you ass.”

Geralt’s eyebrows twitch together slightly, the first sign of acknowledgement Jaskier has gotten since he stepped foot in the room. He considers it a small victory.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m getting tired of playing chess against myself and I’m tired of sitting at home all alone. It takes me an hour to get here, you know. So I’m staying until you fucking play me cause I’m not wasting two hours every day just to talk to someone who keeps ignoring me. If I wanted that, I’d just go visit my family.” He takes a deep breath, trying to temper the fire in his chest. “Now  _ choose.” _

“Why?” Golden eyes meet his as Geralt tilts his head up slightly.

Jaskier frowns. “If you’d rather I choose, then that’s fine with me-“

“No. Why do you come here?”

He huffs out an annoyed breath. “To play chess with you.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Cause I don’t know anyone else who can. Now can you please fucking  _ choose?  _ My arms are growing tired.”

Golden eyes stare at him and a hundred minute expressions shift across Geralt’s face in half a second, too many for Jaskier to identify, too many for him to know what it means in the long run. Then, Geralt’s face goes blank like a perfectly wiped slate, the mask of indifference Jaskier got to see the very first day back in place.

It’s a million times better than the defeated expression Geralt wore yesterday. Once again, small victories.

Geralt’s hand comes up to tap Jaskier’s left fist.

He grins in triumph. “Now, was that so hard?”

He turns around to set the pieces on the chess board, turning it so the right side is facing Geralt’s – still unoccupied – chair.

He could swear he hears a “You have no idea,” behind him, but he ignores it, settling in the other chair, back in his usual spot.

“Shall we play, then?”

\---

They don’t talk for the rest of the two hours Jaskier’s there, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. Quite the contrary – Jaskier’s sure that if he had his guitar with him, he would feel inspired enough to actually write music. But alas, his guitar is broken and gathering dust in the corner of his living room. He tries to ignore the pang of hurt he feels every time he remembers.

After a while, though, he loses focus, his ability to concentrate not what it was before… the incident.  _ A sign of possible brain damage is having trouble concentrating.  _ He ignores the doctor’s voice in the back of his head as well.

He announces his departure and gathers his jacket from the back of the chair, hand automatically coming up to make sure his scarf is still in place. He’d kept it on the past two hours, both because the lack of sunshine streaming in through the window makes the room quite cold and because he doesn’t want to remind Geralt of everything that happened every time golden eyes look at him.

He doesn’t need Geralt’s pity. He doesn’t  _ want _ it either, for that matter.

In the doorway, he turns around one last time, looking at the man sitting at the window. He expects Geralt to be looking at the chess board like he always is whenever Jaskier leaves, but this time, golden eyes are on him already.

“R- right,” he stammers. “See you tomorrow, then?”

A beat of silence, and he could swear something changes in Geralt’s face – something minute, something barely there, but something nonetheless. “See you tomorrow,” Geralt says softly before turning back to the chess board.

\---

He actually sleeps well that night.

\---

It continues like that for a week or so. Jaskier comes back to the hospital, plays chess against Geralt, they exchange a few polite words and Jaskier leaves again. Every day, it gets a little bit easier to breathe and – at Triss’ insistence – he buys himself a nightlight so he doesn’t have to try to sleep with the lights on.

“Geralt?” he asks tentatively one day, moving his bishop. “Can I ask you something?”

The corner of full lips pulls up. “You just did.”

He rolls his eyes. “ _ Ha ha,  _ you’re hilarious.” It’s quiet for a few seconds. “But seriously, Geralt. I want to ask you something.”

“Hmm.” By now, he knows this particular kind of hum means he’s got permission to go on.

“Why… why haven’t you gone to any of the group therapy sessions yet?”

Something in Geralt’s face shifts, like a shadow falling over his features. A certain tenseness makes its way to Geralt’s muscles and shoulders and his movements are stiff when he pushes a pawn over the board. Jaskier has the distinct feeling that if he were to leave it at this today, the blinds would be pulled all the way down tomorrow – they’re half-raised now. For some reason, they’re always half-raised whenever Geralt’s having a good day.

“You see,” he continues, looking at the chess board without really seeing anything, desperately searching for a way to say what he wants to say without screwing up. “You’ve been here a while and I can’t imagine… I can’t imagine it’s pleasant to be here, all locked up with nowhere to go.”

He looks up to gauge Geralt’s reaction who, after a few seconds, shrugs. “’S not half bad,” he mutters.

Something tight and knotted in Jaskier’s chest unfurls slightly. “I’m just saying, if you were to… play along with what the doctor and nurses are demanding, you’d be able to get out of here. I know my face is a blessing, but you might want to see some other ones, right?”

Geralt gives a noncommittal shrug, but once again something in his face shifts, something sad making its way to his eyes. “Is that why you’re here?” he asks the chess board as it stands forgotten between them.

“Is  _ what  _ why I’m here?”

Golden eyes look at him, calculating and so unsure Jaskier has to resist the urge to get up and hug Geralt. “Because you’re trying to fix me.”

Jaskier sighs, eyes stinging slightly. “W- what?”

“You can’t. You can’t fix me.”

He reaches across the table and Geralt startles slightly when Jaskier cradles one of his hands in both of his, golden eyes flickering between his face and their now intertwined hands.

“Geralt, I’m not trying to  _ fix you.  _ That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you here?”

He bites his bottom lip, trying to fight back the tears from glazing over his eyes, trying not to show how much Geralt’s insecurity hurts to hear. “I… I wanna get to know you.”

“Why?” Once again, a question so simple yet so devastating.

He smiles softly. “Because I think, Geralt of Rivia, that you’re a person worth knowing.”

“I’m not.” Geralt tries to pull his hand away but Jaskier tightens his grip, holding him in place.

“How about you let me be the judge of that? Because…”

He turns Geralt’s hand in his own, trailing his fingers down a scarred palm before hooking them around Geralt’s. Golden eyes remain focused on their hands and bit by bit, Geralt’s fingers curl around Jaskier’s, who smiles softly and rubs his thumb against the back of Geralt’s hand.

“Because,” he whispers again, “from what I’ve gathered so far, I think you’re a person very much worth knowing, my dearest Geralt.”

Golden eyes look at him, open and sincere and insecure and  _ hurting _ . “You’re a terrible liar,” Geralt says softly.

He holds that gaze, bringing their hands closer and turning them until he can press a soft kiss against the back of Geralt’s hand.

“Then you should know I’m not lying,” he whispers back. “All I’m asking is for you to trust me. That’s all.  _ Please,  _ just trust that I’m not lying to you.”

A few seconds pass, golden eyes never leaving his even as a million minute changes flash through them, betraying Geralt’s inner thought process so much Jaskier feels like he’s intruding on something he shouldn’t. But he holds Geralt’s gaze and waits.

Eventually, Geralt nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan!


End file.
